mmmmmmmmmmmm 
i^mmammmmmtmmmtmmm 


■pmm 

nnHHH 


JUST  CALIFORNIA 


AND  SONGS  ALONG 
THE  WAY 


BY 


JOHN  S.  McGROARTY 


THE  TIMES-MIRROR  COMPANY 
LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 


#1 

Digitizedjpy  the,tal$riwArfchive 

in  2006  with  funding  from 

Yahoo! 


http://www.archive.org/details/justcaliforniasoOOmcgrrich 


TO 

ELLIOT  PARDEE  KISNER 

In  Memory  of  Old  Battles  and  Wandering  Days 
of  Dreams 


From  Memovy's  crowded  closet-place, 
Like  faded  leaves,  sometimes, 

I  gather  tlpse  old  dreams  of  mine 
dAnd  kiss  them  o'er  with  rhymes. 


And  ikougk  I  know  the  dream  recalled 

zMay  only  bring  regzet, 
It  is  sweeter  to  remember 

Than  it  could  be  to  forget. 


JUST  CALIFORNIA 


JUST    CALIFORNIA 

[When  I  come  here  to  California  I  am  not  in  the  West ;  I  am  west 
of  the  West.  It  is  just  California. — From  the  speech  delivered  at  Ven- 
tura, May  9,  1903,  by  Theodore  Roosevelt,  President  of  the  United 
States.] 

'Twixt  the  seas  and  the  deserts, 

'Twixt  the  wastes  and  the  waves, 
Between  the  sands  of  buried  lands 

And  ocean's  coral  caves, 
It  lies  not  East  nor  West, 

But  like  a  scroll  unfurled, 
Where  the  hand  of  God  hath  hung  it, 

Down  the  middle  of  the  world. 

It  lies  where  God  hath  spread  it, 

In  the  gladness  of  his  eyes, 
Like  a  flame  of  jeweled  tapestry 

Beneath  His  shining  skies ; 
With  the  green  of  woven  meadows, 

And  the  hills  in  golden  chains, 
The  light  of  leaping  rivers, 

And  the  flash  of  poppied  plains. 

Days  rise  that  gleam  in  glory, 

Days  die  with  sunset's  breeze, 
While  from  Cathay  that  was  of  old 

Sail  countless  argosies; 
Morns  break  again  in  splendor 

O'er  the  giant,  new-born  West, 
But  of  all  the  lands  God  fashioned, 

'Tis  this  land  is  the  best. 

Sun  and  dews  that  kiss  it, 

Balmy  winds  that  blow, 
The  stars  in  clustered  diadems 

Upon  its  peaks  of  snow; 
The  mighty  mountains  o'er  it, 

Below,  the  white  seas  swirled — 
Just  California  stretching  down 

The  middle  of  the  world. 


10  Just  California. 

THE  CALL  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Of  old  she  called  with  her  lips  of  song, 

She  called  with  her  breath  of  musk 
From  peaks  where  the  sunlight  lingered  long, 

And  the  vales  in  the  purpled  dusk ; 
She  called  to  the  seas  with  their  tides  of  tang, 

To  the  ships  of  the  far-off  fleet, 
And  they  came  in  the  lure  of  the  song  she  sang, 

With  their  white  sails,  to  her  feet. 

So,  like  a  mother  with  bursting  breast, 

She  claimed  the  brood  of  the  seas, 
And  the  flaming  lips  of  her  wild  love  pressed 

Upon  them,  about  her  knees; 
She  crooned  them  to  sleep  on  her  bosom  fair, 

Where  their  happy  hearts  were  lain, 
And  they  laughed  in  her  eyes  that  wrapped  them  there 

Like  their  old,  warm  skies  of  Spain. 

With  cheeks  of  olive  and  eyes  of  night 

They  laughed  in  her  glad  caress, 
And  she  gave  them  her  Land  of  the  Living  Light 

For  their  wandering  feet  to  press. 
She  gave  them  her  Land  of  the  Sun  and  Shine, 

Where  the  seas  and  the  deserts  part, 
And  they  brought  her  their  gifts  of  the  fig  and  vine 

And  wound  them  around  her  heart. 

Yet,  oft  in  the  light  of  the  mellow  moons 

From  the  jaspered  heavens  hung, 
'Mid  the  tinkle  of  soft  Castilian  tunes 

And  bells  from  the  Missions  rung, 
She  dreamed  of  her  bounty  brimming  o'er 

With  its  largess  of  field  and  plain, 
And  then  from  the  sweep  of  the  sunlit  shore 

Her  fond  lips  called  again. 

Again  she  called,  and  from  far  away, 

Over  desert  and  mountain  keep, 
In  lands  where  the  wind-swept  prairies  lay, 

And  the  ice-clasped  torrents  sleep, 
They  heard  her  voice,  like  a  golden  chime, 

And  in  dreams  they  saw  her  rise 
From  golden  streams  in  a  golden  clime 

'Neath  the  blue  of  faithful  skies. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  11 

Then  forth  from  the  toil  of  grudging  field 

And  their  grinding  marts  they  fled, 
While  the  good  ship  Argo  sailed  new  keeled 

Where  the  long  sea  journey  led ; 
And  anon  through  forests  and  wastes  they  fared, 

Over  trackless  plain  and  hill, 
And  many  a  blood-stained  trail  they  dared 

To  the  voice  that  called  them  still. 

They  came,  and  she  dowered  with  spendthrift  hands, 

The  hopes  of  their  wildest  dreams, 
And  she  flung  at  their  feet  the  golden  sands 

That  slept  in  her  shining  streams — 
Saxon  and  Teuton  and  Celt  that  trod 

The  paths  of  her  treasured  springs, 
With  shoon  of  silver  their  feet  she  shod 

And  clothed  them  in  robes  of  kings. 

So  hath  she  called  with  her  lips  of  song, 

Of  old,  with  her  breath  of  musk, 
From  hills  where  the  sunlight  lingers  long, 

And  the  vales  in  the  purpled  dusk; 
And  so  from  her  soul's  unwearied  love 

Rings  the  voice  with  its  olden  thrill; 
From  the  seas  below  and  the  skies  above, 

She  is  calling,  calling  still. 


"EL  CAMINO  REAL" 

(The  King's  Highway.) 

All  in  the  golden  weather,  forth  let  us  ride  today, 
You  and  I  together  on  the  King's  Highway, 
The  blue  skies  above  us,  and  below  the  shining  sea ; 
There's  many  a  road  to  travel,  but  it's  this  road  for  me. 

It's  a  long  road  and  sunny,  and  the  fairest  in  the  world — 
There  are  peaks  that  rise  above  it  in  their  snowy  mantles  curled, 
And  it  leads  from  the  mountains  through  a  hedge  of  chaparral, 
Down  to  the  waters  where  the  sea  gulls  call. 

It's  a  long  road  and  sunny,  it's  a  long  road  and  old, 
And  the  brown  padres  made  it  for  the  flocks  of  the  fold; 
They  made  it  for  the  sandals  of  the  sinner-folk  that  trod 
From  the  fields  in  the  open  to  the  shelter-house  of  God. 


12  Just  California. 

They  made  it  for  the  sandals  of  the  sinner-folk  of  old ; 
Now  the  flocks  they  are  scattered  and  death  keeps  the  fold  ; 
But  you  and  I  together  we  will  take  the  road  today, 
With  the  breath  in  our  nostrils,  on  the  King's  Highway. 

We  will  take  the  road  together  through  the  morning's  golden  glow, 
And  we'll  dream  of  those  who  trod  it  in  the  mellowed  long  ago; 
We  will  stop  at  the  Missions  where  the  sleeping  padres  lay, 
And  we'll  bend  a  knee  above  them  for  their  soul's  sake  to  pray. 

We'll  ride  through  the  valleys  where  the  blossom's  on  the  tree, 
Through  the  orchards  and  the  meadows  with  the  bird  and  the  bee, 
And  we'll  take  the  rising  hills  where  the  manzanitas  grow, 
Past  the  gray  tails  of  waterfalls  where  blue  violets  blow. 

Old  Conquistadores,  O  brown  priests,  and  all, 
Give  us  your  ghosts  for  company  when  night  begins  to  fall ; 
There's  many  a  road  to  travel,  but  it's  this  road  today, 
With  the  breath  of  God  about  us  on  the  King's  Highway. 


IN  MONTEREY 

(A  Memory  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.) 

When  long  ago  he  wandered  here, 
Heart-hungered,  sick  and  poor, 

No  roof  was  bent  to  shelter  him, 
No  welcome  at  the  door. 

In  all  the  streets  of  Monterey, 

With  sun  and  shine  aflame, 
No  word  was  passed  that  they  might  know 

The  Prince  of  Dreamers  came. 

There  sped  no  song  to  meet  him 

From  lute  or  lifted  lyre, 
When  here  the  master  singer  passed 

To  seek  his  Heart's  Desire. 

No  hand  was  raised  to  help  him, 

No  lips  with  cheer  to  greet, 
Till  worn  with  fast  and  weariness 

He  fainted  at  their  feet. 


ERS1TY 


Songs  Along  the  Way. 

Then  one  there  was  who  lifted  up 

The  fever-tortured  head, 
And  took  him  to  his  pitying  heart, 

And  gave  him  drink  and  bread — 

Gave  him  a  shelter  and  a  bed, 

Nor  asked  his  name  to  know, 
And  of  all  the  men  in  Monterey 

It  is  to  him  I'll  go. 

It  is  to  this  old,  kindly  man 

That  I  will  go  today, 
The  thanks  of  all  the  grateful  world 

And  my  poor  thanks  to  say. 

Let  from  the  shores  the  wild  waves  break 

In  mist  and  white  sprays  flung, 
Let  from  the  ancient  Mission  tower 

The  Angelus  be  rung, 

Let  all  the  tales  they  tell  be  told, 

But  just  one  tale  for  me, 
And  'tis  of  him  who  sleeps  afar 

Beyond  that  sun-kissed  sea; 

Whose  dreams  I  know,  whose  songs  I  sing, 
Though  dead  he  lies  and  still — 

"  The  sailor  who  is  home  from  sea, 
The  hunter  from  the  hill." 


13 


THE  HILLS  OF  SANTA  CRUZ 


One  time,  in  Springtime,  God  made  a  perfect  day, 
He  woke  me  in  the  morning  and  hid  my  cares  away, 
He  woke  me  with  a  thrush's  song,  and  with  the  linnet's  trills, 
He  took  me  in  His  hand  and  He  set  me  on  the  hills. 

He  set  me  on  the  hills,  on  the  topmost  hill  of  all, 
And  I  heard  the  piping  morning  winds  and  far  sea-breakers  call, 
I  heard  the  winds  a-singing  from  the  lands  and  waters  met, 
An  I  live  a  thousand  years,  oh,  I  never  can  forget. 

He  touched  my  eyes  with  gladness,  with  balm  of  morning  dews, 
On  the  topmost  rim  He  set  me  'mong  the  hills  of  Santa  Cruz, 
And  I  saw  the  sunlit  ocean  sweep,  I  saw  the  vale  below — 
The  veil  of  Santa  Clara  in  a  sea  of  blossomed  snow. 


14  Just  California. 

It  was  Springtime  and  joy-time,  and  God  had  filled  his  loom 
With  woven  plains  of  poppies  and  orchards  all  a-bloom, 
With  web  of  gold  and  purple  in  the  fields  and  uplands  green, 
And  the  white  woof  of  blossoms  that  stretched  away  between. 

The  bluest  sky  that  ever  shone  stretched  over  me  that  day, 
And  I  could  see  the  ships  that  rode  upon  St.  Francis  Bay ; 
I  could  see  the  ships  a-sailing  with  pennants  flung  elate; 
I  could  see  them  win  the  harbor  and  pass  the  Golden  Gate. 

Up  from  the  valley,  with  song  and  laughter,  rose 
The  voice  of  happy  peoples  from  the  blossomed  orchard  snows, 
The  Spring's  clear  soprano  from  the  gleaming,  swaying  trees, 
And  the  basso  crescendo  of  the  surf-breaking  seas. 

One  time,  in  Springtime,  God  made  a  perfect  day, 
He  woke  my  soul  to  see  it,  and  loosed  my  heart  in  play, 
.With  the  lark's  song  he  woke  me,  and  the  gull's  distant  call, 
And  He  set  me  on  the  hills,  on  the  farthest  hill  of  all. 

Bright  days  of  pleasure  and  gray  days  of  pain — 
Fve  had  my  willing  share  of  both,  and  so  I  may  again ; 
'Tis  not  for  me  to  make  them,  'tis  not  for  me  to  choose, 
But,  oh,  that  day  of  splendor  in  the  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


LA  FIESTA  DE  LAS  FLORES 

I.  MORNING. 

Soul  of  the  morning  and  balm  of  the  sea, 

Dawn  in  the  fields  of  dew, 
The  breath  of  the  west  winds  blowing  free, 

And  the  faithful  skies  of  blue. 

The  silent  mountains  rising  fair 

From  Aurora's  golden  flood, 
While  the  roar  of  the  city  rends  the  air, 

Where  the  old  Pueblo  stood. 

The  world's  awake,  and  today  is  ours, 
With  spoils  of  the  field  and  plain 

Spread  out  for  us  in  a  feast  of  flowers, 
As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Spain. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  15 

So  we'll  seek  a  nook  where  the  sunlight  lies 

Like  a  bright  serape's  fold, 
And  the  laugh  of  a  senorita's  eyes 

Brings  back  the  days  of  old. 


II.  NOON. 

O  beggar  who  sat  by  the  road  with  me, 

In  sighs  and  longings  vain, 
Lo,  here  is  your  ship  at  last  from  sea, 

And  your  castles  built  in  Spain. 

Wreath  and  pennant  and  banners  gay, 
On   the   towers   strung  and   gored, 

And  the  long,  gaunt  streets  of  yesterday 
Bright  as  the  Cid's  own  sword. 

The  lips  of  Granada's  women  rave 
As  your  champing  steed  in  pride 

Goes  by  with  the  caballeros  brave, 
Who  glory  with  you  to  ride. 

Mustard  blossoms  from  fields  of  grass, 

Roses  and  violets  blue — 
Oh,  kiss  your  hand,  Sefior,  as  you  pass, 

And  they  rain  them  down  on  you. 


III.  NIGHT. 

On  the  dream-kissed  day  the  shadow  falls, 

Yet  now  in  their  splendor  glows 
A  million  lights  on  the  castle  walls 

And  the  gilded  porticos. 

Flowers  of  the  night  that  blossom,  too, 

As  the  gleam  of  a  priceless  gem, 
And  the  laughter  of  glad  hearts  breaking  through, 

Where  the  feast  is  spread  for  them. 

Music  and  song,  and  the  tinkling  tune 

Of  echoes  that  sound  afar, 
Like  memories  swept  on  the  airs  of  June 

From  an  old  sweetheart's  guitar. 


16  Just  California. 

But,  what  of  tomorrow  that  brings  no  thrill, 
With  its  old,  sharp,  waking  cry? 

Oh,  the  feast  of  flowers  is  waiting  still, 
Out  under  the  wide,  blue  sky. 


BACK  YONDER 


Away  back  Yonder  the  wintry  winds  are  chill, 
In  a  winding  sheet  of  snow  lies  the  valley  and  the  hill, 
The  patient  cattle  huddle  in  the  shelter  from  the  storm, 
And  the  folks  are  all  housed  in  'round  the  fire,  keeping  warm ; 
It's  a  hard  time  they're  having,  and  it  sets  a  man  to  ponder 
How  glad  he  ought  to  be  that  he's  not  back  Yonder. 

I  get  to  thinking  of  them,  often,  when  alone, 

Here  with  the  birds  and  the  bees'  happy  drone, 

The  flowers  and  the  sun  and  the  land  with  poppies  gay ; 

Somehow  through  it  all  my  thoughts  backward  stray, 

And  I  catch  myself  a-dreaming  of  the  old  place,  and  wonder 

If  the  skating's  like  it  was  when  I  lived  back  Yonder. 

I  wonder  if  they  gather  in  the  cold,  crispy  night, 
With  the  moon's  flooding  glory  on  the  fields  still  and  white, 
The  lusty-throated  boys  and  the  laughing,  rosy  girls, 
Their  bright  eyes  dancing  through  their  tantalizing  curls, 
When  coasting's  at  its  best  and  the  ice  is  gleaming  under 
The  bobsleds  a-whizzing  on  the  hills  back  Yonder. 

I  think  I  see  the  old  folks  gathered  in  the  glow 

Of  the  hearthstone's  warmth  that  once  I  used  to  know, 

The  brown  jug  of  cider  of  Nature's  wholesome  brew, 

And  the  spoils  of  the  orchard  where  the  luscious  apples  grew ; 

I  think,  and  I  think,  till  I've  half  a  mind  to  squander 

The  last  cent  I've  got  on  a  trip  back  Yonder. 

But,  of  course,  it's  only  dreaming ;  I  wouldn't  really  go 
Back  to  the  howling  winds,  the  blizzards  and  the  snow, 
Away  from  the  flowers,  and  the  sun  and  the  bees, 
The  balm  in  the  air,  and  the  sunny  days  like  these ; 
But  I  can't  help  knowing  as  far  away  I  wander 
That  there's  other  kind  of  joy,  and  it's  way  back  Yonder. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  17 

THE  CAPTIVE  COYOTES 

The  gray  thief's  outcast  brood, 

Trapped  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  far  away  the  sheltered  wood, 

And  far  the  desert's  fen. 

Far  is  the  moonlit  plain, 

Where  they  would  wandering  be ; 
They  like  not,  through  the  window  pane, 

The  faces  that  they  see. 

No  use  to  stretch  a  hand 

Of  kind  and  friendly  care; 
They  would  not  know  nor  understand 

The  peace  ye  would  declare. 

The  wild  blood  will  not  tame 

With  one  day's  passing  grace, 
For  know  ye  not  from  whence  they  came  ? 

That  wild,  marauding  race? 

For  full  a  thousand  years 

They've  borne  the  bane  and  ban, 
The  bold,  unshriven  buccaneers, 

The  gypsy's  outlawed  clan. 

And  so,  when  night  stars  pale, 

And  wakes  the  desert's  breeze, 
If  you  should  hear  a  she- wolf  wail, 

It  is  for  loss  of  these. 


THE  BAY  OF  SAN  DIEGO 

The  sunlight  of  the  morning  across  the  far  hills  broke, 
From  the  dawn  the  veils  of  mist  fell  and  faded  as  I  woke ; 
The  sea  was  bathed  with  glory  in  a  sweep  of  swirling  fire, 
And  I  wandered  with  my  soul  in  the  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 

In  the  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  in  the  dreamland  of  my  soul, 
And  my  boat  was  on  the  shore  with  its  rudder  and  its  thole, 
With  its  white  sails  agleam  and  the  soft  winds  blowing  free, 
And  the  Bay  of  San  Diego  shining  blue  against  the  sea. 


18  Just  California. 

Yonder  from  the  hills  blew  the  blithe  breeze  of  morn, 
The  scent  of  the  lemon  on  its  breath  of  lotus  borne, 
The  scent  of  the  lemon  from  the  mesas  blowing  down, 
From  Chula  Vista's  mesas  to  the  sun-harbored  town. 

The  lemon  was  in  blossom,  and,  shimmered  in  between, 
Glowed  the  gold  of  the  orange  and  the  olive's  flash  of  green ; 
I  could  see  them  from  the  waters  that  rippled,  blue  and  bright, 
On  the  Bay  of  San  Diego  in  the  golden  morning  light. 

On  the  billows'  far  horizon  I  saw  a  white  ship  sail, 

And  backward  o'er  the  hills  stretched  the  world-wearied  trail ; 

But  the  ship  lured  me  not  that  beckoned  to  the  main, 

And  the  trail  was  not  for  me,  though  with  gold  it  were  lain. 

There  was  no  road  for  me  wheresoever  it  might  lay, 
Wheresoever  o'er  the  land  or  the  sea  it  stretched,  that  day ; 
All  the  voices  of  the  world  died  and  faltered,  though  they  called, 
When  the  Bay  of  San  Diego  held  my  soul,  dream-enthralled. 

Never  dawned  a  day  so  fair  and  never  set  the  sun 
On  a  picture  half  so  lovely  when  that  day  was  done; 
But,  that  day  and  this  day,  unchanging  and  the  same, 
'Tis  still  as  God  has  made  it  since  the  first  day  that  came. 

'Tis  still  as  God  has  made  it  in  the  gladness  of  His  dreams, 
With  the  never-ending  summer  that  forever  o'er  it  gleams — 
The  mystic  seas  beyond  it  in  the  sunlight's  golden  fire, 
And  the  Bay  of  San  Diego  in  the  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  RAIN 

"And  also  I  have  withholden  the  rain  from  you." 

Lord,  see'st  Thou  not,  beside  the  way, 

The  drooping  flowers 
That,  week  by  week  and  day  by  day, 

Cry  for  Thy  showers? 

Hear'st  Thou  not  the  plaintive  song 

The  wild  birds  sing, 
That  in  the  withered  woodlands  throng 

With  dusty  wing? 


Songs  Along  the  Way. 

The  bare,  brown  hills,  the  blanching  plains, 

The  silent  vale, 
They  fade  and  sicken  for  thy  rains, 

In  sore  travail. 

The  wild  folk  of  the  forest  keeps 

Wail  in  the  night, 
And,  'neath  the  loam,  the  poppy  sleeps, 

Shut  from  the  light. 

Lord,  in  thy  wide-flung,  bending  sky 

Afar   there   broods 
Where  veiled  and  mist-swept  oceans  lie, 

Thy  cloud-pent  floods ; 

Send  Thou  from  thence  the  singing  rain, 

The  laughing  streams, 
On  this  dear  land  of  hill  and  plain 

Thou  mad'st  of  dreams — 

This  land  of  dreams  Thou  mad'st  so  fair, 

So  fair  and  sweet, 
Set  like  a  jeweled  footstool,  there 

To  rest  Thy  feet. 

The  earth  will  blossom  at  thy  word — 

Oh,  speak  it,  then; 
We  ask  it  of  Thy  mercy,  Lord, 

In  Thy   dear   Name.     Amen. 


DEO    GRATIAS 

And  he  prayed  again  and  the  heavens  gave  rain ;  and  the  earth  brought  forth 
her  fruit. — Jas.  v,  18. 

Lord,  when  seared  and  dead  were  laid 

The  hill  and  plain, 
Through  days  of  trouble  unto  Thee  we  prayed, 

And  not  in  vain. 

We  cried  to  Thee  from  our  poor  heart's  distress, 

We  called  Thy  name, 
And  lo!  from  Heaven,  like  a  fond  caress, 

The  answer  came. 


20  Just  California. 

The  glad  rain  sweeping  over  vale  and  hill 

Came  from  the  sea, 
And  in  the  night  we  lay  with  souls  athrill 

That  sang  to  Thee. 

We  bared  our  hearts  to  catch  the  trembling  song 

That  whispering  fell 
From  clouds  and  mists,  singing  the  whole  night  long, 

With  lingering  spell. 

Far  in  its  bed  the  waking  poppy  stirred, 

The  flowers  rejoiced, 
And  in  the  tree  the  twitter  of  the  bird 

Its  gladness  voiced. 

The  wearied  land  tomorrow  casts  away 

Its  cloak  of  brown, 
And  dons  its  robes  of  green  to  greet  the  day 

With  Spring's  bright  crown. 

The  fallow  furrows,  turned  in  wan  despair, 

And  sown  in  grief, 
When  comes  the  happy  harvests  will  be  fair 

With  golden  sheaf. 

Dear  Lord,  to  whom  in  vain  no  burden  calls, 

On  land  or  sea, 
We  lift  our  faces  through  the  rain  that  falls, 

In  thanks  to  Thee. 


THE  MARGUERITES  OF  PAUL  DE  LONGPRE 

All  in  his  fairy  garden  the  myriad  flowers  grow, 

The  lilac  and  the  buttercup,  the  stately  Jacqueminot, 

The  fleur-de-lis,  anemone,  the  pansy's  changeful  hue, 

The  yellow-robed  acacia  and  violets  of  blue ; 

And,  oh.  the  laughing  daisies  with  eyes  of  welcome  sweet- 

The  flower  that  he  loves  the  best,  the  modest  Marguerite. 

Upon  the  walls  of  magic,  within  his  fair  roof-tree, 

The  flowers  live  and  bloom  again  in  shining  panoply, 

Plucked  from  stems  that  bore  them,  no  more  to  fade  and  die, 

With  dews  of  morn  upon  them,  and  sheen  of  summer  sky; 

Yet  there,  like  keys  of  minor  that  sigh  upon  a  song, 

The  Marguerite's  faint  petals  the  splendid  pictures  throng. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  21 

Flowers  of  hill  and  valley,  and  all  the  dappled  plains, 
Glinted  by  the  shimmered  sun,  kissed  of  singing  rains, 
Blossoms  of  the  swaying  tree,  tender  buds  of  spring, 
Flaming  banners  of  the  vines  that  'round  dead  towers  cling — 
They  grow  to  make  his  kingdom  of  dream  and  color  bright, 
Limned  by  his  fairy  palette  and  pencils  touched  with  light. 

Every  flower  that  blows  he  loves,  yet  one  the  best,  of  old, 

The  tender  little  daisy,  with  its  sunny  heart  of  gold, 

With  its  heart  of  gold  that  cheered  him  when  Fortune  looked  askance, 

In  his  day  of  gloom  and  trouble  'neath  the  bending  skies  of  France ; 

And  now,  with  all  the  world  and  its  laurels  at  his  feet, 

The  soul  of  him  cannot  forget  his  first  love — Marguerite. 


IN  THE  SAN  JOAQUIN 

I  watched  the  sun  sink  from  the  west, 

I  watched  the  sweet  day  die; 
Above  the  dim  Coast  Range's  crest 

I  saw  the  red  clouds  lie; 
I  saw  them  lying  golden  deep, 

By  lingering  sunbeams  kissed, 
Like  isles  of  Fairyland  that  sleep 

In  seas  of  amethyst. 

Soft,  through  the  amber  twilight,  stole 

One  clear  note  of  the  lark, 
As  fell  upon  my  wondering  soul 

The  desert's  sudden  dark; 
It  fell  with  trembling  fear  that  broods 

When  night  steals  o'er  the  plain, 
And  from  the  ghostly  cotton  woods 

The  moody  owls  complain. 

Then,  through  the  long  night  hours  I  lay 

In  baffled  sleep's  travail, 
And  heard  the  outcast  thieves  in  gray, 

The  gaunt  coyotes,  wail. 
With  seaward  winds  that  wandering  blew, 

I  heard  the  wild  geese  cry, 
I  heard  their  gray  wings  beating  through 

The  star-dust  of  the  sky. 


22  Just  California. 

Spent,  through  the  wakeful  gloom,  I  lay 

With  my  poor  heart's  distress, 
And  walked  again  the  haunted  way 

Of  life's  old  loneliness. 
The  dead,  from  far  graves  come,  I  heard, 

I  saw  them  rise  and  pass; 
They  spoke  my  name  when,  sighing,  stirred 

The  whispering  pampas  grass. 

Yet,  with  the  last  grim,  solemn  hour, 

Stilled  were  the  voices  all, 
And  then  from  poppied  fields  a-flower 

Rang  out  the  wild  bird's  call ; 
The  glad  dawn,  deep  in  white  mists  steeped, 

Breathed  on  the  day's  hushed  lyre, 
And  far  the  dim  Sierras  leaped 

In  living  waves  of  fire. 


J 

WHEN  IT  RAINS  IN  CALIFORNIA 

When  it  rains  in  Californy 

It  makes  the  Tourist  mad, 
But  folks  that's  got  the  crops  to  raise 

Is  feelin'  mighty  glad; 
I  stand  out  in  the  showers, 

Wet  as  a  drown-ded  rat, 
And  watch  the  grain  a-growin', 

And  the  cattle  gettin'  fat. 

Sorry  for  them  Easterners, 

Kickin'  like  Sam  Hill, 
But  the  sun-kissed  land  is  thirsty, 

And  wants  to  drink  its  fill. 
Oh,  hear  the  poppies  laughin', 

And  the  happy  Mockers  sing, 
When  it  rains  in  Californy, 

Through  the  glory  of  the  Spring. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  23 

FROM  THE  HILLS 

Yonder  lies  the  restless  town, 

'X   I'm  glad  that  I  ain't  there, 
To  listen  to  its   roarin'   noise, 

And  breathe  its  stiflin'  air; 
The  streets  all  jammed  and  crowded 

With  a  million  flyin'  wheels, 
And  them   crazy   autermubbles 

Cavortin'  'round  your  heels. 

You  git  into  a  street  car 

And  a  feller  plugs  you  dead, 
'Er  climbs  up  through  the  winder, 

When  you  lay  asleep  in  bed; 
Dern  poles  all  strung  with  lightin', 

Set  'round  instead  of  trees — 
No,  sir,  give  me  the  country, 

With  its  poppies  and  its  bees. 


THINGS  IS  LOOKIN'  BULLY 

All  years  is  good  years, 

There's  never  need  to  whine, 
But  some  of  them  is  better, 

And  this  one's  extra  fine. 
Rains  come  when  they  orter, 

Early  ones  and  late, 
And  things  is  lookin'  bully 

All  down  the  Golden  State. 

The  meadow  lark  at  evenin' 

Is  pipin'  you  good-night, 
And  the  mocker's  song  is  ringin' 

With  the  peep  o'  mornin'  light; 
The  poppies  and  the  roses 

And  the  grain  is  growin'  great, 
And  things  is  lookin'  bully 

All  down  the  Golden  State. 


24  just  California. 

GIVE  ME  CALIFORNY 

Blizzard  back  in  York  State 
Sings  its  frosty  tune, 

Here  the  sun  a-shinin', 
Air  as  warm  as  June. 

Snow  in  Pennsylvany, 
Zero  times  down  East, 

Here  the  flowers  bloomin' 
A  feller's  eyes  to  feast. 

Shiverin'   in   Kansas, 

The  hull  blame  country  froze, 

Here  the  birds  a-singin', 
Girls  in  summer  clothes. 

It's  every  one  his  own  way, 
The  place  he'd  like  to  be, 

But  give  me  Californy — 
It's  good  enough  for  me. 


HOME 

[Read  at  the  Sixteenth  Annual  Reunion  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Society  of  Southern  Califorina,  held  at  Long  Beach,  Cal.,  June  20th, 
1903.] 

I. 

Home,  O  home,  and  the  name  of  it  that  we  speak  on  a  stranger  shore, 
And  find  in  our  hearts  the  old  love  still  for  the  days  and  the  things  of 

yore; 
The  name  of  it  and  the  love  of  it  that  nothing  can  lure  away, 
No  matter  how  blue  the  skies  that  bend  or  the  paths  our  footsteps 

stray ; 
Longing,  and  backward  turning  still,  with  memory  fond  that  thrills, 
As  we  think  of  the  sweeping  rivers  and  the  stretch  of  the  old  blue 

hills. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  25 

II. 

June  is  there,  and  the  days  are  fair  on  the  hills  of  Long  Ago, 

And  the  wild  flowers  are  in  blossom  now,  and  soft  the  south  winds 

blow, 
The  robin  sings  and  the  chewink  cries,  and  the  thrush  is  nesting  there, 
The.  sunlight  sleeps  on  the  fields  of  corn,  and  the  clovered  meadows  fair, 
And  mountain  rills,  that  flash  and  gleam  in  the  light  of  the  dewy  morn, 
They  are  singing  the  songs  we  used  to  know  in  the  land  where  we  were 

born. 

III. 

'Tis  a  brave  old  land  where  we  were  born,  and  goodly  is  its  fame, 
The  glories  of  its  past  inwrought  with  its  quaint  old  Quaker  name — 
There,  where  Liberty's  cradle  rocked,  and  its  flag  was  first  unfurled, 
And  the  Bell  with  its  deathless  challenge  rang  that  echoed  around  the 

world — 
Our  brave  old  State  that  storm  and  stress  have  never  conquered  yet, 
That  in  Freedom's  arch,  in  the  days  of  old,  as  the  strong  Keystone 

was  set. 


IV. 

Orchards  bloom  on  her  sunny  slopes,  the  golden  grain  in  her  fields, 
The  anvil's  music  is  ringing  there  from  the  arm  that  Labor  wields ; 
Smoke  from  the  grimy  marts  of  toil,  and  the  busy  hives  that  glow 
With  the  quenchless  fires  of  Industry  where  the  tides  of  Commerce 

flow; 
Wealth  of  the  cities  pouring  down  where  the  crowded  harbor  lies, 
And  her  name  is  written  in  furnace  flame  on  the  scroll  of  midnight 

skies. 


V. 

Here,  from  the  sweet-strewn  poppy  fields  and  flash  of  sunset  seas, 
Where  our  feet  have  followed  the  stars  of  the  West  with  their  new- 
born destinies, 
Oh,  oft  we  turn  in  our  dreams  again  to  the  haunts  where  of  yore  we 

strayed, 
And  the  croon  of  our  cradle-song  was  sung  and  the  graves  of  our  dead 

are  laid; 
We  turn  again  with  a  smile  or  a  tear  to  the  days  we  used  to  know, 
And  wander  away  'mid  the  hills  of  Home  in  the  Land  of  Long  Ago. 


SONGS  ALONG  THE  WAY 


E 

3ITY 


A  SONG  ALONG  THE  WAY 

Always   a   little   nearer, 

The   day   of   the   last   farewell, 
Ever  a  little  clearer 

The  sound  of  the  warning  bell; 
The  shadows  closer  creeping 

Through  fading  skies  of  blue, 
Then,  where  the  dead  are  sleeping, 

We'll  lie  and  rest  us,  too. 

So,  as  we  journey,  brother, 

Through  days  that  are  left  us  still, 
Let  us  share  with  one  another 

The  road  that  winds  the  hill. 
If  burdens  of  pain  we  carry, 

As  we  trudge  along,  the  while, 
By  the  green  fields  let  us  tarry, 

And  search  them  for  a  smile. 

Useless,  on  weary  shoulders, 

The  trappings  of  strife  we  bear, 
And  the  hate  in  our  hearts  that  smolders 

Makes  hard  the  way  we  fare. 
Let  us  cast  away  the  madness 

Of  swords  with  which  we  fought, 
And  share,  alike,  the  gladness 

Love's  golden  pennies  bought. 


Breasting  the  winds  together, 

As  we  wander  the  age-worn  way, 
Peace,  with  its  summer  weather, 

Will  light  the  skies  of  gray. 
And  then,  with  hearts  grown  fonder, 

Serene  with  their  own  delight, 
We'll  part  in  the  twilight  yonder, 

With  a  tender  and  fond  good-night. 


30  •    Just  California. 

THE  DREAMS  OF  LONG  AGO 

From  Memory's  crowded  closet-place,  like  faded  leaves,  sometimes, 
I  gather  these  old  dreams  of  mine  and  kiss  them  o'er  with  rhymes, 
And  my  foolish  tears  upon  them  will  glisten  like  the  dew 
That  used  to  gem  the  flowers  that  the  old,  sweet  mornings  knew. 

I  know  the  faded  leaf  hath  lost  the  balm  to  soothe  again 

The  heart  that  smarts  from  sorrow's  scars  and  dagger  thrusts  of  pain, 

And  I  know  that  every  dream  of  these  will  only  bring  regret, 

Yet  'tis  sweeter  to  remember  than  it  could  be  to  forget. 

So  I  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  brook's  enchanting  wave, 
Singing  mystic  songs  of  glory  that  the  distance  never  gave, 
And  I  watch  the  summer  rainbow  down  the  heaven's  vistas  bend, 
That  vanished  like  the  treasures  that  were  hidden  at  the  end. 

The  birds  that  sang  at  morning,  the  noon-hum  of  the  bee, 
The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  waters,  oh,  they  all  come  back  to  me ; 
Come  like  the  tender  glances  that  made  sweet  my  mother's  eyes, 
And  leave  me  like  she  left  me  when  she  fled  to  Paradise. 


THE  RANSOM 


There  was  one  sin  that  I  loved  most, 
One  wish  there  was  best  loved  of  me- 

I  gave  them  to  a  dead  man's  ghost, 
To  set  his  poor  soul  free. 

I  gave  them  from  my  heart's  red  core, 
And  left  it  seared  and  gray  with  pain, 

That  he  might  burn  in  flame  no  more, 
Nor  walk  the  night  again. 

He  met  me  when  the  stars  were  deep, 
His  lowly  grave  near-by  was  laid — 

Oft,  'ere  he  went  with  death  to  sleep, 
In  that  same  spot  we  strayed. 

He  met  me  there  with  pleading  eyes, 
The  same  fond,  tender  eyes  of  old, 

And,  in  my  fear  and  dread  surprise, 
My  faltering  blood  ran  cold. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  31 

He  followed  me  within  my  door, 

Xor  fled  till  day  began  to  break, 
The  while  he  ceased  not  to  implore 

With  lips  that  could  not  speak. 

But  when,  at  length,  he  went  away, 

Full  well  I  knew  what  was  to  be, 
What  ransom  it  was  mine  to  pay, 

What  boon  he  asked  of  me. 

And  so,  with  heart  grown  old  in  grief, 

I  went  where  shone  the  shrine  of  prayer, 
And  plucked  my  roses,  leaf  by  leaf, 

And  left  them   lying  there. 

My  wayward  soul  I  shrived  full  clean, 

With  knout  and  lash  my  flesh  I  flayed, 
In  sackcloth,  where  dim  altars  lean, 

For  his  soul's  peace  I  prayed. 

But,  oh,  the  dear  sin,  long  enticed, 

Drowned  in  that  dregged  and  bitter  cup ; 
And,  oh,  that  wild  wish  sacrificed, 

That  then  I  offered  up. 

'Twould    souls  of  thrice  a  thousand  save, 
'Twould  'fend  a  kingdom  from  God's  wrath, 

Which,  to  that  dead  man's  ghost  I  gave, 
Yon  night  he  crossed  my  path. 

Long  since  his  happy  feet  are  set 

Upon  the  shining  streets  of  gold, 
But,  in  his  joy,  can  he  forget 

His  debt  to  me  of  old? 

Will  he  forget  when  my  soul  waits, 

And  dark  my  days  of  trouble  fall, 
Or  will  he  storm  the  jasper  gates 

To  help  me,  when  I  call  ? 


32  Just  California. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLAG 

What  song  is  the  old  flag  singing, 

As  it  ripples  upon  the  breeze, 
It's  voice  to  the  far  lands  ringing, 

And  its  music  upon  the  seas? 
Oh,  the  light  of  its  beauty's  falling 

From  the  sweep  of  its  own  fair  skies, 
Through  the  gloom  where  the  weak  are  calling, 

With  hope  in  their  lifted  eyes. 

Wherever  its  stars  of  glory, 

And  its  bars  of  crimson  glow, 
They  will  shine  with  the  deathless  story 

The  world  has  thrilled  to  know. 
And  however  the  highways  lengthen, 

Where  the  feet  of  freemen  fare, 
The  song  of  the  flag  will  strengthen 

The  hearts  that  battle  there. 

And  up  where  the  white  lands  glisten 

In  their  jeweled  robes  of  snow, 
For  the  song  of  the  flag  they'll  listen, 

With  its  music  soft  and  low. 
And  down  'mid  the  palm  trees  sleeping, 

On  shores  of  the  sun-kissed  main, 
From  the  faith  of  their  soul  new-leaping, 

It  will  wake  the  glad  refrain. 

One  land  and  one  flag  above  it — 

From  the  ice-floes  still  and  cold, 
Borne  on  by  the  hearts  that  love  it 

To  the  sunlit  seas  of  gold; 
With  the  gleam  of  its  glory  o'er  them, 

To  the  restless  winds  unfurled, 
Let  them  bear  to  the  years  before  them 

Its  challenge  to  all  the  world. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  33 

THE  LITTLE  SALVATION  LASSIE 

(Emma  Booth-Tucker,  killed  at  Dean  Lake,  Mo.,  Oct.  28,  1903J 

Wreck  and  ruin  their  story  tell, 

And  the  whole  world  bows  its  head 
Where  the  little  Salvation  Lassie  fell, 

Bleeding  and  crushed  and  dead — 
Dead  where  the  crash  of  flying  wheel 

Her  gentle  heart's  blood  spilled, 
And  who  will  teach  us  to  know  and  feel 

She  died  as  God  had  willed? 

The  eyes  she  dried  when  she  went  away, 

They  will  break  in  tears  again, 
And  the  hearts  that  loved  her,  what  will  they  say 

When  they  hear  that  she  is  slain? 
What  will  they  do  in  their  hovels  now, 

With  heads  in  grief  low  bent, 
In  the  haunts  of  their  sorrow,  foul  and  low, 

Where  her  footsteps  gladly  went? 

Frail  as  the  fairest  flower  that  blows 

In  the  south  wind's  soft  caress, 
She  walked  in  the  shadow  of  human  woes, 

To  succor  and  help  and  bless; 
In  the  gloom  and  slime  of  the  nameless  sin, 

The  light  of  her  brave  eyes  shone, 
And  where  never  another  entered  in 

She  came  with  her  song,  alone. 

Frail  as  a  flower  and  fair  as  morn, 

Her  soul  unstained  of  dross, 
A  soldier,  she  braved  the  sneer  and  scorn, 

And  her  only  shield  the  Cross. 
Sleep,  O  Lassie  with  bloodstained  brow, 

The  din  of  the  battle  dies, 
And  God's  own  arms  are  'round  you  now, 

In  the  peace  of  His  sheltered  skies. 


34  Just  California. 

THE  SAILOR  OF  GENOA 

Westward  he  turned  his  daring  prows, 

Westward  he  sailed  away, 
Strange  oceans  beating  upon  his  bows, 

And  dashing  his  sails  with  spray; 
Strange  winds,  they  whipped  the  bending  spars, 

But  never  a  point  he  veered, 
Though  high  above  him  the  very  stars 

Were  strange  as  the  path  he  steered. 

Tempest  and  storm  and  snarling  sea 

The  path  that  he  steered  beset, 
And  the  waves  that  broke  to  the  wind  and  lee 

No  man  before  had  met ; 
Sky  that  wrapped  him  and  breeze  that  blew, 

No  man  had  known  before, 
Yet  on  he  sailed  with  his  scowling  crew — 

Straight  on  to  the  west  he  bore. 

Westward,  westward,  till  hope  went  down 

In  the  black  seas'  deep  abyss 
From  the  hearts  of  his  sailors,  scarred  and  brown, 

From  every  heart  but  his. 
With  fear  and  curses  they  turned  from  him 

And  scoffed  at  his  mystic  goal, 
But  fate  nor  furies  could  quench  nor  dim 

The  faith  of  his  dauntless  soul. 

Westward,  westward,  till  one  fair  morn, 

The  keels  of  his  wandering  fleet 
Crept  into  the  shallows  the  tides  had  borne 

Around  a  new  world's  feet; 
Around  the  feet  of  a  world  he  won 

From  the  veiled  and  pathless  seas, 
When  sailed,  in  his  Spanish  galleon, 

The  immortal  Genoese. 


Songs  Along  the  IT  ay.  35 

THE  GYPSY 

The  king-  hath  his  castles, 

And  his  wide  lands  in  fee, 
Yet  the  mountains  shut  them  in, 

And  they  end  at  the  sea ; 
But  the  gypsy,  oh,  the  rover, 

With  every  wind  that's  blown, 
He  tramps  the  whole  earth  over, 

And  claims  it  as  his  own. 

By  the  bright,  running  waters, 

On  every  slope  of  green, 
O'er  all  the  rising  hills 

And  the  fields  that  lie  between, 
With  his  brown  brood  he'll  wander, 

His  light  heart  a-thrill, 
And  the  world  is  his  to  squander, 

And  to  barter  as  he  will. 

The  rich  man  in  cities, 

He  counts  his  store  of  gold, 
Yet  it  rings  not  with  music, 

And  the  touch  of  it  is  cold; 
But  the  gypsy  mints  the  treasure 

Of  golden  days  of  sun, 
And  spends  it  without  measure, 

Xor  reckons  when  'tis  done. 


He  follows  where  the  swallow 

Its  wing  southward  dips, 
He  is  back  with  the  wren, 

And  the  song  upon  his  lips; 
With  his  foot  for  the  clover, 

And  the  stars  above  him  dim, 
Oh,  the  Romany,  the  rover, 

And  the  glad  heart  of  him. 


36  Just  California. 

THE  BELL  OF  DOLORES 

The  bell  of  Dolores. 

Upon  the  midnight  rang, 
Oh,  weird  was  its  music 

And  the  wild  song  it  sang; 
While  the  priest  of  Dolores 

Then  spoke  the  fateful  word, 
And  put  aside  his  golden  stole 

And  girded  on  his  sword. 

O'er  the  hills  in  the  starlight, 

Thick  with  bending-speared  maguey, 
By  the  paths  in  the  valleys 

Where  the  haciendas  lay, 
From  the  deep,  shadowed  canons, 

Where  the  cool  waters  fall; 
They  leaped  from  their  slumbers 

And  answered  to  the  call. 

In  the  gloom  and  the  shadows, 

At  the  wild  call  they  came, 
And  the  voice  of  Hidalgo 

Spoke  out  from  lips  of  flame : ; 
"Oh,   follow  me,   my  children, 

Tonight  we  strike  a  blow 
For  freedom  and  for  liberty, 

For  God  and  Mexico.,, 

Few  were  their  numbers, 

But  every  arm  was  steeled 
With  the  swift  strength  of  vengeance, 

And  they  swore  not  to  yield. 
With  liberty  for  guerdon, 

On  the  proud  foe  they  fell, 
And  the  red  fields  of  slaughter 

Have  told  their  story  well. 

From  the  fierce  years  of  battles, 

From  black  years  of  pain, 
They  wrung  the  hard-wrought  victory, 

And  broke  the  yoke  of  Spain; 
They  broke  the  gyve  and  shackle, 

For  they  swore  they  would  be  free 
When  the  bell  of  Dolores 

Rang  out  for  liberty. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  37 

AFRICANUS  TRIUMPHANS 

[Read   before   the   Afro- American    Congress   at    Pasadena,    Cal. 
August  19,  1903.] 

When,  out  of  the  chaos,  earth  was  hurled, 

And  God's  great  mandate  spread; 
When  he  made  the  races  to  fill  the  world — 

Yellow  and  white  and  red — 
There  was  one  made  black,  and  the  other  three 

Seeing  him,  asked  to  know 
Whence,  from  what  darkness  cometh  he? 

And  whither  does  he  go? 

And  the  black  man  said  God  made  us  free, 

White  and  black  men  all, 
Yellow  or  red,  whichever  we  be, 

There  shall  be  no  bond  or  thrall; 
But  they  said  his  lips  had  spoken  lies, 

For  the  brand  was  on  his  cheek, 
And  they  dulled  their  ears  to  his  children's  cries, 

And  the  word  his  tongue  would  speak. 

So,  through  the  centuries  hath  he  borne, 

With  shoulders  bowed  to  the  wheel, 
The  whole  world's  burdens  and  its  scorn — 

Its  bloodhounds  at  his  heel. 
Bound  he  stood  in  the  palace  hall, 

He  was  chained  in  the  galleyed  ships, 
Yet,  with  deathless  courage  he  braved  it  all, 

With  the  challenge  upon  his  lips. 

Out  from  the  ages,  stained  and  dim 

With  curse  and  wrong  and  hate, 
He  comes  with  the  patient  heart  of  him 

Unbent  of  Time  or  Fate. 
Lash  and  shackle  and  gyve  and  goad 

He  bore  through  grief  and  dole, 
Yet  stands  at  last,  from  the  weary  load, 

Erect  with  dauntless  soul. 


38  Just  California. 

There  was  never  an  hour  of  the  countless  years 

When  the  Slavers'  white  sail  gleamed, 
But  through  the  rain  of  his  blood   and  tears, 

Of   his   birthright   still   he   dreamed; 
There  was  never  a  night  of  gloom  and  pain 

But  brought  him  its  hope  of  morn, 
With  the  vision  of  Liberty  dawned  again, 

And  the  freedom  he  lost,  new  born. 

He  comes  with  his  glory  from  wars  of  death 

For  the  flag  that  made  him  free, 
He  comes  from  the  cannon's  thundrous  breath 

That  he  faced  all  fearlessly ; 
He  comes  with  the  songs  his  poets  sing, 

With  the  pictures  his  painters  drew, 
With  the  music  the  tongues  of  his  pleaders  ring, 

And  the  things  that  his  hands  can  do. 

He  comes,  my  brother,  whoever  you  be — 

Yellow,  or  white,  or  red — 
In  the  fair,  full  light  of  his  destiny, 

With  the  word  that,  of  old,  he  said. 
Gentle  and  patient  and  brave  and  strong, 

With  the  faith  of  his  soul  unworn, 
And  the  time  is  past  for  shackle  and  thong, 

And  the  time  is  past  for  scorn. 

O  olden  race  of  the  jungle  and  hill, 

O  olden  race  and  strong, 
Brave  be  your  hearts  with  the  challenge  still, 

And  glad  be  your  lips  with  song. 
Look  up  to  the  glory  that  flames  the  skies, 

The  gloom  of  the  night  is  done ; 
Oh,   shout  to  the  morning  with  victor  cries, 

For  the  long,  hard  fight  is  won. 


Songs  Along  the  IT  ay.  39 

DEATH  OF  LEO  XIII 

Under  the  blue  Italian  skies, 

By  Tiber's  yellow  tide, 
Low   the   Lion   of  Judah   lies. 

In  the  streets  where  Caesar  died. 

The  golden  censer  its  incense  spills 

'Xeath  Peter's  towering  dome, 
And  a  hush  is  over  the  seven  hills 

Of  old,   imperial   Rome. 

He  sits  no  more  on  his  ancient  throne, 

With  the  triple  crown  he  wore, 
The  Fisherman's  ring  that  flashed  and  shone 

Gleams  from  his  hand  no  more; 

While  Death,  that  waited  so  long  for  him, 

Hath  passed   with   victor  tread, 
Sheathing  his  sword  in  the  starlight  dim — 

For  Leo,  the  Pope,  is  dead. 

Leo  is  dead  in  the  Vatican, 

He  is  dead,  and  the  cry  will  go 
Wherever  wander  the  feet  of  man, 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow. 

It  will  still  the  rush  of  the  restless  tide, 

'Mid  the  cities'  ceaseless  roar, 
And  wherever  the  ships  at  anchor  ride, 

They  will  signal  it  from  shore. 

The  soldier  will  hear  it  upon  the  wall, 

It  will  sound  with  the  sentry's  cries, 
And  echo  from  kings'  ancestral  halls 

To  the  tribes  'neath  desert  skies. 

And  wherever  men  go  and  whatever  they  be, 

They  will  stop  a  while  to  say, 
As  they  toil  on  the  land  or  sail  the  sea, 

'Twas  a  good  man  died  today — 

There's  a  great  heart  stilled  in  yonder  place, 

'Mid  his  altars  high  and  dim; 
There  was  not  a  soul  of  the  human  race 

But  had  the  love  of  him. 


40  Just  California. 

Jew  and  Gentile,  whate'er  their  creed, 

Or  the  child  of  whatever  land, 
It  was  he  who  solaced  them  in  their  need, 

And  joined  them  hand  in  hand. 

The  cry  of  the  weak  to  him  went  up 
That  he  shielded  from  the  strong, 

And  he  gave  them  to  drink  from  love's  sweet  cup, 
And  he  smote  no  thing  but  wrong. 

And  so,  tho'  the  alien  lands  they  dare, 

Or  sit  'mid  the  lights  of  home, 
Today  the  hearts  of  the  world  will  fare 

On  the  roads  that  lead  to  Rome. 


IN  KASTANIENWALD 

(To  B.  P.  K.) 

What   is    it   like   in   Kastanienwald  ? 

Oh,  I  think  it  is  like  to  be  very  fair, 
For,  yesterday,  in  a  dream  I  called, 

Called,  and  sat  for  an  hour  there. 
I  came  from  the  hills  and  wandered  down 

By  pathways  strewn  with  old  memories, 
'Till  I  saw  it  lying  beyond  the  town, 

With  its  groves  of  clustered  chestnut  trees. 

An  old,  gray  dog  at  the  sunny  gate 

Rose  up  to  meet  me  with  friendly  bay, 
The  catbird  cried  to  his  noisy  mate, 

And  the  robin  sang  to  me  on  the  way. 
Through  towering  branches  the  sunlight  came, 

Lighting  the  wood  with  a  tender  glow, 
And  the  laurel  flower  was  all  aflame, 

And  the  blackberry  blossoms  white  as  snow. 

There  were  sheltering  eaves  that  I  walked  beneath, 

I  passed  unchallenged  across  the  hall 
Where  hung  the  sword  in  its  battered  sheath, 

With  shield  and  buckler  on  the  wall. 
And  there,  in  his  fortress,  dream-enthralled, 

Sat  he  who  rode  to  the  joust  and  fray 
Long  time  ago,  ere  Kastanienwald 

The  cry  of  the  battles  drove  away. 


Songs  Along  the  Way. 

I  had  tales  to  tell  him  of  sunlit  seas, 

Of  fields  where  the  golden  poppies  throng, 
Of  meadow  larks  and  the  hum  of  bees, 

And  snow-capped  hills,  and  the  mockers'  song; 
Tales  of  the  peaks  where  the  starlight  broods, 

And  blue  skies  bending  the  livelong  day, 
But  I  left  him  there  in  his  quiet  woods — 

It  was  only  a  dream,  and  I  could  not  stay. 

'Twas  only  a  dream,  but  sometime,  anon, 

When  my  soul  a-wandering  goes,  again, 
Away  through  the  great,  dim  shadows,  yon 

'Mid  the  old,  old  hills,  where  mine  own  are  lain, 
I  will  seek  him  out  from  his  quiet  nooks, 

With  a  jest,  mayhap,  or  a  tear  recalled, 
And  he'll  lift  his  eyes  from  his  well-loved  books, 

And  will  know  I  am  there  in  Kastanienwald. 


DRAGA 


Draga  is  dead,  who  was  so  fair, 

Her  dumb  lips  'reft  of  their  luring  smile, 
Her  heart's  red  blood  in  her  matted'hair, 

And  splashed  on  her  soft,  white  hands  the  while. 
Her  eyes  of  glory,  that  flamed  and  burned, 

Have  veiled  their  fires  of  love  and  hate, 
And  the  bucklered  hosts  of  the  foes  she  spurned 

Stand  guard,  tonight,  at  her  palace  gate. 

Tomorrow  they'll  set  the  crown  she  wore, 

With  its  flashing  gems,  on  a  rival's  head, 
And  the  realm  is  safe — they  will  say — once  more, 

It  is  safe,  for  Draga,  the  Queen,  is  dead — 
She  is  dead,  the  Queen  with  the  wanton  eyes, 

Who  laughed  to  ruin  the  goodly  State, 
And. low  in  the  cloisters  of  doom  she  lies, 

Strong-barred  'gainst  envy  and  fear  and  hate. 


42  Just  California. 

'Twas  a  far,  mad  journey,  the  way  she  came, 

Up  from  the  plebeian  paths,  alone, 
Trailing  her  garments  of  sin  and  shame, 

To  flaunt  them  forth  from  the  purpled  Throne; 
But  farther  still  is  the  journey  now 

That  she  takes  in  the  dark,  alone,  again, 
The  cerecloth  bound  on  her  snowy  brow, 

And  Death's  gaunt  courtiers  in  her  train. 

Unshrived,  in  an  outcast  grave  she  sleeps, 

Near  the  quiet  lanes  where,  of  old,  she  played ; 
And  the  long,  dim  shade  of  the  spire  creeps 

Where  in  childhood's  hours  she  sang  and  prayed. 
And  you,  O  Masters,  who  cast  the  stone, 

As  we  speak  the  word  you  would  have  us  say, 
Will  the  same  word  serve  at  the  great  White  Throne, 

When  she  pleads  for  herself  on  the  Judgment  Day  ? 


BLOW,  BUGLES,  BLOW 

Blow,  bugles,  blow,  soft  and  sweet  and  low, 

Sing  a  good  night  song  for  them  who  bravely  faced  the  foe; 

Sing  a  song  of  truce  to  pain, 

Where  they  sleep  nor  wake  again, 

'Neath  the  sunshine  or  the  rain — 
Blow,  bugles,  blow. 

Wave,  banners,  wave,  above  each  hero's  grave, 
Fold  them,  O  thou  stainless  flag  that  they  died  to  save; 
All  thy  stars  with  glory  bright, 
Bore  they  on  through  Treason's  night, 
Through  the  darkness  to  the  light — 
Wave,  banners,  wave. 

Fall,  blossoms,  fall,  over  one  and  all, 

They  who  heard  their  country's  cry  and  answered  to  the  call ; 
'Mid  the  shock  of  shot  and  shell, 
Where  they  bled  and  where  they  fell, 
They  who  fought  so  long  and  well — 

Fall,  blossoms,  fall. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  43 


Sigh,  breezes,  sigh,  so  gently  wandering  by, 
Bend  above  them  tenderly,  blue  of  summer  sky 
All  their  weary  marches  done, 
All  their  battles  fought  and  won, 
Friend  and  lover,  sire  and  son — 
Sigh,  breezes,  sigh. 


ROOSEVELT  IN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Above  him  the  wild  skies  bending, 

Beneath  him  the  wastes  of  snow — 
Through  the  hush  of  the  forest  wending, 

And  over  the  bleak  plateau, 
He  rode,  with  his  strong  heart  glowing, 

In  a  clime  of  old,  held  dear, 
And  the  winds  of  the  West  were  blowing, 

With  the  music  he  loves  to  hear. 

Beside  him,  with  clanking  saber, 

The  brown-cheeked  trooper  rode, 
Yet,  he  passed,  as  friend  and  neighbor, 

Where  the  things  of  the  wild  abode — 
Where  the  things  that  people  the  places 

Of  mountain  and  hill  and  fen, 
Were  waiting,  with  kindly  faces, 

To  welcome  the  chief  of  men. 

And  so  that  they,  too,  might  render 

Their  tribute  of  love  to  him, 
Forth,  then,  in  their  strength  and  splendor 

From  the  forests  dark  and  dim, 
From   the   wastes   and   the   gushing   fountains 

Like  a  leaping  wave  of  flame, 
The  antlered  kings  of  the  mountains 

In  royal  escort  came. 

Down  through  the  wild  wastes  riding, 

They  followed  him  over  the  snow. 
By  the  peaks  in  the  cloud-mists  hiding, 

And  down  to  the  broad  plateau ; 
And  never,  in  song  or  story, 

In  tourney,  or  feast,  or  fray, 
Rode  king  of  khan  in  his  glory 

As  this   man   rode  that  day. 


44  Just  California. 

A  SPRIG  OF  LILAC 

A  little  sprig  of  lilac,  its  fragrance  in  the  air, 
And,  oh,  lonely  heart,  if  we  could  again  but  fare 
Across  the  weary  miles  that  we've  wandered,  to  the  door 
Where  once  bloomed  the  lilac  in  the  happy  days  of  yore. 

If  time  could  backward  turn,  o'er  the  years  that  are  so  long, 
And  we  could  see  her  standing  there  and  hear  the  lilting  song, 
Her  face  with  its  glory  and  her  lips  with  gladness  kissed, 
It's  little  that  we'd  care  for  whatever  else  we've  missed. 

It's  little  we  would  care  for  the  dreary  days  of  pain, 
The  tears  and  the  loneliness,  if  she  were  there  again, 
Her  dear  arms  to  fold  us,  and  her  tender  eyes  aglow, 
Beside  the  bonnie  lilac  bush  she  planted,  long  ago. 

A  little  sprig  of  blossoms,  their  perfume  in  the  air, 
But  oh,  the  weary  heart  that  can  not  forget  its  care ; 
The  memory-haunted  years,  and  the  lilacs  'round  the  door 
Where  once  was  the  welcome  that  now  is  there  no  more. 


EASTER 


His  footsteps  trod  the  weary  way, 
He  lived  His  life's  sad  story, 

That,  at  the  end,  might  come  this  day 
Of  triumph  and  of  glory. 

It  was  for  this  one  hour  He  bowed 
His  gentle  heart  before  them, 

The  mocking  and  the  ribald  crowd, 
That  bent  the  thorn-crown  o'er  him. 

He  bore  the  faithless  taunt  they  flung, 
The  cruel  lash  that  flayed  Him, 

And  on  Golgotha's  dark  cross  hung, 
When  Judas  had  betrayed  Him. 

But,  lo,  when  angels  rolled  aside 
The  stone  that  locked  death's  prison, 

The  lowly  Nazarene  who  died 
Was  Christ,  the  Lord,  arisen. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  45 

THE  ROOF  TREE 

Once  on  a  time  a  strong  man  hewed 
A  roof  tree  for  his  little  brood; 
His  sinewy  hands  its  rafters  reared, 
His  swinging-  ax  the  forest  cleared, 
'Till  orchard-bloom   and  fields  of  loam 
Smiled  'round  it,  and  he  called  it  Home. 

And  there,  for  many  a  happy  day, 

He  heard  his  children  shout  at  play, 

Or  watched  them,  barefoot,  wading  through 

The  clovered  meadows,  steeped  in  dew; 

And,  one  by  one,  he  saw  them  fare 

Forth  from  the  fold  the  world  to  dare. 

Then  came  a  time  when  'neath  the  shade 
Of  arbors  that  his  hands  had  made, 
They  laid  him  in  the  soft,  cool  mold, 
His  labors  done,  his  story  told. 
And  silence  breathed  its  hush  and  spell 
On  that  dear  place  once  loved  so  well. 

The  roof  tree  crumbled,  spiders  wove 
Their  fairy  webs  its  eaves  above ; 
But  yonder,  in  the  world's  wild  way, 
Those  who  had  loved  it  in  their  play, 
Stopped  oft,  through  days  that  care  beset, 
To  name  it  with  their  heart's  regret. 

A  rich  man  in  his  halls  of  pride, 
Through  many  an  hour  of  longing  sighed 
For  its  bright,  flowery  paths  again ; 
And  one  who  lay  in  fevered  pain 
On  glory's  field,  near  death's  dim  brink, 
Cried  for  its  sweet,  cool  springs  to  drink. 

And  there  was  one  poor  Ishmael, 
Who,  when  his  ill-starred  fortunes  fell, 
Turned  like  a  hunted  dog  at  bay, 
Backward,  o'er  many  a  devious  way, 
To  lay  him  down  with  death,  care  free, 
Once  more  within  the  old  roof  tree. 


46  Just  California. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL 

I. 

"  Whence,"  said  the  Soul  that  in  God's  great  glory  glowed, 
"  Came  my  wandering  footsteps  here  and  who  guided  me  the  road 
Past  the  yawning  pits  of  hell  and  the  darkness  and  the  dread, 
The  jibes  of  all  the  living  and  the  terrors  of  the  dead?" 

II. 

From  the  ringing  choirs  of  Heaven  and  the  shining  Cherubim, 
They  brought  the  Guardian  Angel  of  his  life  to  answer  him. 
And  the  Angel's  was  the  face  that  had  haunted  all  his  years 
When  the  song  was  on  his  lips  or  his  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears. 

III. 

"  It  was  thou,"  said  the  Soul,  "  that  made  hard  my  days  for  me 
With  the  dreary  curse  of  toil,  and  thou  wouldst  not  set  me  free, 

When  the  face  of  Pleasure  smiled  and  its  pathway  glittered  near 

"  Yea,"  smiled  the  Angel,  "  it  was  thus  I  led  thee  here." 


EIRIN  SLAINTE  GAL  GO  BRAGH 

[Passage  of  the  Irish  Land  Bill  of  1903  in  the  British  House 
of  Commons.] 

Lift  up  your  head  and  dry  your  tears, 

Sweet  land  of  Innisfail, 
'Tis  not  today  your  lover  hears 

The  banshee's  lonely  wail, 
But,  from  the  harp  on  Tara's  walls,  1 

So  long  in  grief  unstrung, 
The  lilting  tune  of  gladness  calls,  j 

The  song  of  joy  is  sung. 

'Tis  not  the  day  of  Sarsfleld's  dream, 

When  ebbed  his  heart's  red  tide, 
'Tis  not  the  day  on  Shannon's  stream 

For  which  .your  Emmett  died, 
But  'tis  a  day  of  hope  and  life, 

Of  wrong  made  right  again, 
That  heals  the  bloodstained  scar  of  strife, 

The  gaping  wound  of  pain. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  47 

I  wonder  if  the  dead  that  sleep 

Beneath  the  shamrocks  low, 
Or  far,  where  alien  rivers  sweep, 

Will  thrill  again  to  know 
That  from  the  Norman's  hand  of  steel 

Is  loosed  the  grasp  of  power, 
And  burst  death's  bonds  the  joy  to  feel 

Of  this  long-prayed-for  hour? 

Unfurl  the  green  flag  to  the  breeze, 

There's  none  to  say  it  nay, 
For  e'en  the  Saxon  from  his  seas 

Salutes  its  folds  today. 
Beneath  the  mists  of  Erin's  skies 

May  ne'er  its  luster  pale ; 
Lift  up  your  head  and  dry  your  eyes, 

Dear  land  of  Innisfail. 


THE  SHIP  O'  DREAMS 

The  Ship  o'  Dreams,  it  sails  afar 
Where  moonlit  isles  of  lotus  are, 
And  'round  its  prow  the  soft  seas  break 
And  croon  and  whisper  in  its  wake, 
And  all  the  guides  its  sailors  see 
Are  stars  of  faith  and  memory. 

Bound  outward,  with  the  gentle  wind, 
The  shores  of  care  are  left  behind, 
The  mart's  loud,  jarring  noises  die, 
Faint  falls  its  challenge  and  its  cry; 
The  moan  of  pain,  the  drip  of  tears, 
They  fail  and  falter  on  our  ears. 

Starboard  and  port,  from  rail  to  rail, 
'Tis  with  our  heart's  best  loved  we  sail ; 
The  wanderers  from  the  roof-tree  fled, 
The  lost  ones  whom  we  mourned  as  dead, 
They  crowd  the  decks,  and,  unafraid, 
We  watch  the  golden  anchors  weighed. 

Forth  fare  we  then,  with  lute  and  lyre, 
By  lands  of  hope  and  heart's  desire, 
By  blossomed  slope  and  flowered  plain, 
Where  rise  our  castles  built  in  Spain ; 
And  peace  is  there,  and  o'er  us  gleams 
The  sky  that  folds  the  Ship  o'  Dreams. 


48  Just  California. 

ALWAYS  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  FREE 

Who  fears  for  the  flag  that  freedom  blest, 

'Though  it  wanders  afar  from  home, 
By  the  winds  caressed,  to  the  east  or  west, 

Wherever  its  sons  may  roam  ? 
In  the  calm  of  peace,  or  the  storm  of  wars, 

On  land  or  the  bounding  sea, 
With  its  silver  stars  and  its  crimson  bars, 

It  is  always  the  flag  of  the  free. 

Far  from  the  cradle  where  Liberty  reared 

Its  brood  of  free-born  men, 
That  banner  fared  and  has  onward  dared 

Full  many  a  league  since  then ; 
Like  a  strong  young  eagle,  on  wings  elate, 

It  has  followed  its  destiny 
From  the  old  Bay  State  to  the  Golden  Gate — 

The  fetterless  flag  of  the  free. 

South,  where  the  far  Antilles  lie, 

It  smiled  to  the  glowing  dawn, 
It  soared  on  high  in  the  sunlit  sky 

On  the  hill  above  San  Juan. 
It  has  followed  its  well-loved  ships  away 

To  the  uttermost  alien  sea, 
And  it  floats  today  in  Manila  Bay, 

The  conquering  flag  of  the  free. 

God  speed  the  flag  that  never  has  quailed, 

'Though  it  rode  o'er  the  Spanish  main ; 
When  by  foes  assailed  that  never  has  failed 

Humanity's  need  and  pain. 
It  shall  bless  the  slave  whom  its  valor  frees, 

And  its  glory  shall  'round  him  be; 
On  its  own  loved  breeze  or  the  Orient  seas, 

It  is  always  the  flag  of  the  free. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  49 

44  SHE'S  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE  " 

(The  Venezuelan  Incident.) 

Feller  name  of  Bowen  says  he's  been  a-thinkin'  some 

Of  gettin'  up  a  Nation's  Ball,  invitin'  all  to  come; 

Says  he  thinks  it's  only  fair  to  hand  around  the  fun 

And  not  confine  it  merely  to  the  "  Goth  and  shameless  Hun," 

So  they're  pickin'  out  their  partners  to  join  the  grand  sashay, 

And  your  Uncle  Sam'll  be  there  when  the  band  begins  to  play. 

Billy  Hohenzollern  will  make  things  sort  o'  warm 

When  he  waltzes  down  the  middle  with  Miss  Guelph  upon  his  arm, 

Some  big  guns  will  applaud  him  as  glidin'  on  he  goes, 

With  his  little  Dago  valet  a-holdin'  up  his  clothes, 

They'll  holler  "Hoch  der  Kaiser,"  and  throw  the  English  sop 

To  keep  John  Bull  from  faintin'  at  the  Venezuelan  hop. 

But  wait  till  Uncle  Sammy,  with  his  partner,  "La  Belle  France," 
Drops  in  to  cut  some  pigeon  wings  at  that  there  Nation's  Dance. 
He'll  teach  them  how  the  Boston  dip  caught  on  in  gay  Paree, 
And  they'll  make  the  prettiest  couple  that  you  possibly  could  see. 
And  if  they  ask  him  questions  anywhere  along  the  line, 
He'll  say:   "  Why,  don't  you  know  her?    She's  an  old  sweetheart  of 
mine?" 


THE  DEAD  GUN  MAKER 

Dead !  and  the  belching  thunder 
Of  the  guns,  on  sea  and  shore, 

Tho'  they  rive  the  world  asunder, 
Can  break  on  his  ears  no  more. 

Forth   from   his   hands   he   sent   them, 

Wherever  men  met  as  foes ; 
And,  wherever  strong  hands  unbent  them, 

The  cry  of  the  wounded  rose. 

The  groans  of  the  maimed  and  dying, 
The  moans  of  the  ebbing  heart, 

On  the  fields  of  the  dead,  low  lying, 
Were  the  praise  of  his  master  art. 


50  Just  California. 

Wherever  the  ocean's  billows 
The  ships  of  the  fleet  have  sped, 

Deep  over  the  coral  pillows, 

Where  the  wild  seas  keep  their  dead; 

Wherever,  in  rush  or  rally, 

Man  clashed  in  the  strife  with  man — 

In  Paardeberg's  war-strewn  valley, 
Or  the  red  heights  of  Sedan — 

Death  and  blood  and  disaster 
Spoke  his  great  name  in  dread; 

But  now,  in  his  shroud,  the  master 
That  fashioned  the  guns  lies  dead. 

And,  wishing  him  naught  of  sorrow, 
No  curse  o'er  his  grave,  nor  ban, 

How  well  it  would  be,  if  tomorrow 
The  art  could  die  with  the  man — 

If  brothers,  the  wide  world  over, 

Would  drink  from  Love's  brimming  cup, 

And  cover  the  guns  as  they  cover 
The  dust  o'er  the  grave  of  Krupp. 


THE  QUEEN  CITY 

(Seattle,  1897.) 

The  shelter-craving  sea 

Crept  to  her  feet, 
The  west  wind,  strong  and  free, 

In  her  face  blew  sweet. 
And   oft,  as  the  breath  of  the  main 

Her  bosom  kissed, 
She  hid  in  her  cloak  of  rain 

And  veils  of  mist. 

The  Sailor  wandering  far 

The  trackless  deep, 
Turned  to  the  steadfast  star 

That  watched  her  sleep. 
And  the  dauntless  Pioneer, 

Through  forests  wide, 
Blazed  the  bleak  pathway  clear 

That  reached  her  side. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  51 

They  throned  her  on  the  hills 

Of  changeless  green, 
'Mid  the  gleam  of  mountain  rills 

And  lakes'  soft  sheen  ; 
They  filled  their  souls  with  her  name, 

Her  love  and  grace, 
And  the  sons  of  the  four  winds  came 

To  see  her  face. 

Jewels  and  gems  they  brought, 

And  raiments  gay, 
Treasures  the  looms  had  wrought, 

In  far  Cathay; 
Gifts  from  the  vales  and  plains 

And  marts  of  old, 
And  the  north  from  its  frozen  veins 

Poured  out  its  gold. 

Then  her  wild  pulses  stirred, 

Her  warm  heart  beat, 
She  sang  that  the  whole  world  heard, 

And  the  song  was  sweet. 
The  salt  rains  swept  her  lips, 

Still,  from  the  skies, 
She  laughed  to  the  crowding  ships 

Through  sunlit  eyes. 


THE  TOILER 

(Bckley  Brinton  Coxe,  died  May  13,  1895J 

Smokeless  towers  and  silent  wheels, 

Today  on  the  lonely  hill, 
And  the  restless  hands  are  folded, 

And  the  tireless  heart  is  still. 

The  eyes  that  pierced  the  darkness 

Of  the  very  earth  are  dim, 
And  of  all  his  wide  dominions 

There  is  only  a  grave  for  him. 


52  Just  California. 

He  walked  wherever  the  toiler 
Had  shapen  his  sturdy  tread, 

When  the  scented  way  of  the  roses 
Was  his,  if  he  cared,  instead. 

And  wherefore  hath  he  striven 
If  not  for  gold  and  gain  ? 

Did  he  fashion  his  wheels  of  iron 
For  torture  and  human  pain? 

Answer,  O  lips  that  tremble! 

Answer,  O  tearful  eyes ! 
That  ask  God's  peace  and  blessing 

Upon  him  where  he  lies. 

Yea!    'twas  for  you,  my  brothers, 
With  tireless  brain  he  strove, 

And  the  smoke  from  his  grimy  towers 
Was  the  incense  of  his  love. 

And  after  the  weary  struggle 
No  curse  falls  on  his  head, 

No  trail  of  blood  to  tarnish 
The  blameless  life  he  led. 

Peace  and  farewell,  O  Toiler ! 

God  grant  that  some  day  shall  see 
This  sad  old  world  as  happy 

As  your  dream  would  have  it  be. 


THE  SADDENED  HEART 

I  need  not  say  that  I  am  sad, 

For  every  one  is  so; 
The  world  is  for  a  moment  glad, 

And  then  'tis  full  of  woe, 
And  even  while  we  laugh,  a  tear 

Falls  through    the  music  that  we  hear. 

The  saddest  hearts  I  met  today, 

The  eyes  that  sorest  wept, 
Last  night  were  full  of  mirth  and  gay, 

And  changed  but  while  I  slept ; 
But  then  the  sky  was  bright  and  blue, 

While  now  it  wears  a  somber  hue. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  53 

He  who,  with  voice  of  silvery  ring, 

Told  me  one  hour  ago 
That  life  was  such  a  happy  thing, 

With  curses  deep  and  low 
Avers  that  now  he  does  not  care 

For  life  or  death  in  his  despair. 

And  thus  it  is,  and  thus  'twill  be, 

E'en  as  'twas  long  ago — 
You  need  not  speak  your  grief  to  me, 

With  every  one,  'tis  so ; 
And  you,  and  I,  and  all,  but  tread 

Unto  the  hope  that  shrouds  the  dead. 


THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD 

In  the  old  churchyard,  tho'  the  sun  at  morning  gleams, 
They  who  sleep  within  its  bosom  never  waken  from  their  dreams, 
Nor  answer  when  you  call  them,  nor  listen  when  you  speak, 
Nor  know  you  weep  above  them,  and  that  your  heart  may  break. 
But  still,  amid  the  silence,  'neath  the  soft,  green  mantled  sward, 
They  slumber  on  forever  in  the  old  churchyard. 

Yet,  somehow,  when  the  gentle  winds  across  the  grasses  blow, 
There  is  something  in  its  whisper  like  the  voice  you  used  to  know, 
And  you  dream  that,  as  it  passes,  every  gleaming  drop  of  dew 
Is  a  tear  that  some  lost  loved  one  has  left  behind  for  you, 
And  the  soul  leaps  through  the  gate  that  Death,  for  pity,  leaves  un- 
barred 
'Twixt  you  and  those  that  love  you  in  the  old  churchyard. 

Mine  own  are  there,  mine  own  that  left  me  lonely  long  ago, 
For  whom  my  heart  full  long  hath  cried  and  wept  and  hungered  so ; 
No  stranger  sleeps,  among  them  all,  not  one  but,  could  he  rise, 
Would  welcome  me  with  all  the  dear  old  gladness  in  his  eyes. 
And  I  bend  my  face  above  them,  feeling  still  their  love  may  guard 
And  cherish  him  who  mourns  them  in  the  old  churchyard. 

Oh,  the  old  churchyard !  Tho'  I  wander  o'er  the  sea 

And  the  farthest  league  of  distance,  it  is  ever  near  to  me. 

Life  brings  me  no  new  lesson  that  can  teach  me  to  forget 

The  love  that  first  it  brought  me,  and  is  the  fondest  yet. 

And  when  the  days  are  ended,  and  the  Night  comes  on,  unstarred, 

There  is  rest  for  hearts  aweary  in  the  old  churchyard. 


54  lust  California. 

THE  DREAMER 

(John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  died  Aug.  10,  1890.) 

With  sleepless  eyes  and  head  bent  low, 

Oft  hath  he  listened  long  nights  through, 
And  all  the  wandering  winds  that  blow 

Were  voices  that  he  dreamed  he  knew. 
And  when  the  haggard  light  of  day 

Crept  through  the  valleys,  wrapt  and  dim, 
He  rose  to  do,  like  one  to  pray, 

What  bidding  night  had  given  him. 

For  'tis  upon  the  winds  that  blow, 

When  night  hath  come,  that  every  need 
Of  hearts  that  ache  in  pain  and  woe, 

For  pity  through  the  wide  world  speed. 
And  we  that  sleep,  we  never  hear 

The  pleading  voices  as  they  creep, 
But  he,  awake  with  listening  ear, 

With  pity  wept,  and  could  not  sleep. 

And  so,  when  day's  deep  noises  stirred 

The  fretful  world  to  strife  and  greed, 
He  gave  all  that  he  had,  a  word, 

A  touch,  a  tear,  a  generous  deed. 
And  all  the  poor  who  hungered  so 

For  love  to  bless  or  bread  to  eat, 
Rose  from  the  sorrow  and  the  woe 

Of  bitter  hours  that  he  made  sweet. 

But  once  he  slept;   The  voices  cried 

Still  as  of  old,  the  long  night  through ; 
Yet,  heedless  all,  and  heavy-eyed, 

He  would  not  hear  the  winds  that  blew. 
And  when  the  dawn  in  solemn  gray 

Came  forth,  its  early  light  to  shed, 
His  lips  had  no  fond  word  to  say, 

Night's  tears  were  vain,  for  he  was  dead. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  55 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  IROQUOIS 

(Wyoming  Valley,  1778.J 

"Maughwama !"  they  cried  from  the  war  canoes, 
And  the  hills  that  slept  in  the  morning  dews ; 
"Maughwama,  valley  of  stream  and  plain, 
Lo,  thy  children  are  come  to  thee  again." 
And  their  wild  cry  echoed  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  the  winds  from  the  river,  that  loved  them  still. 
Caught  up  the  greetings  their  mad  lips  gave, 
And  swept  its  music  from  wave  to  wave. 

"Welcome,  oh  welcome,"  the  free  winds  cried, 
"Welcome,  oh  wanderers,"  the  forests  sighed; 
"Mohawks,  bold  in  the  battle's  strain, 
Oneidas,  patient  of  hunger  and  pain, 
Senecas,  swiftest  the  tribes  among, 
Cayugas,  generous,  kind  and  strong; 
Wise  Onondagas,  whose  silvered  speech 
From  the  council  fires  the  Nations  teach ; 
Wild  Tuscaroras,  unbent  and  free, 
Welcome,  oh  welcome,  to  all  and  thee." 

Wyoming !  and  these  were  the  scattered  seed 
Of  her  Nations,  remnanted,  spent  in  their  need, 
With  the  ruin  and  wreck  of  the  strangers'  wars 
Writ  on  their  faces  in  ashen  scars, 
And  the  haunting  wail  of  their  lost  and  dead 
Like  a  mock'ry  following  them  where  they  sped. 
From  steeps  where  the  northern  rivers  run, 
From  the  purple  skies  of  the  setting  sun, 
Of  all  their  wide  land  nothing  left, 
Of  kindred  and  glory  and  home  bereft ; 
Back  in  their  reeling  defeats  they  came, 
Blazing  their  pathway  with  ruin  and  flame ; 
Till  thus  they  gazed  from  the  frowning  crest 
That  rose  o'er  the  valley  their  hearts  loved  best. 


56  Just  California. 

From  the  clasp  of  the  mountains  with  gold  and  gleam 

Of  the  sunlight  kissing  its  winding  stream, 

Fair  Susquehanna  the  exiles  bore ; 

They  moored  their  boats  on  the  shallow  shore ; 

They  clambered  to  beckoning  hill  and  plain, 

And  the  old,  sweet  places  they  claimed  again. 

Theirs  the  bright  streams  and  the  swaying  trees, 

'Ere  the  pale  robber  had  crossed  his  seas, 

With  his  false  heart  smiling  upon  his  lips, 

And  the  fires  of  death  in  his  cruel  ships, 

Grasping,  with  insolent  greed  and  might, 

All  that  by  birth  was  the  red  man's  right, 

Setting  his  fields  in  the  virgin  wood 

Where  the  first  born,  rightful  race  had  stood, 

'Till  with  ruthless  courage  his  ploughshares  swept 

The  very  graves  where  their  fathers  slept. 

"Hal-loo-o!    Hal-loo-o!"  from  peak  to  peak 

The  shuddering  sound  rolls  back,  the  shriek 

Of  the  Iroquois  rose  on  the  quivering  air ! 

Alas,  O  Wyoming,  sun-kissed  and  fair, 

For  the  new  brood  suckling  at  thy  breast ! 

Better  yon  distant  mountain's  crest 

Had  never  its  nodding  grasses  bent 

'Neath  the  feet  that  Connecticut  wandering  sent 

To  seek  fresh  grooves  for  the  Yankee  plow. 

Lo !  the  day  of  ire  is  upon  them  now. 

They  need  not  fear  and  they  need  not  care 

That  Tory  and  Briton  confront  them  there, 

But  well  may  they  fly  to  the  strong  support 

Of  the  sheltering  timbers  of  Forty  Fort, 

That  the  wronged  and  the  robbed  and  the  homeless  race 

Hath  come  again  to  its  rightful  place. 


PRAISE 


How  art  thou  praised  ?  By  word  or  look  ? 

Yet  still  not  so  shall  I  praise  thee. 
I  would  as  lief  the  shallow  brook 

Had  taught  its  fickle  kiss  to  me 
As  seek  by  speech  or  glance  the  ways 
That  I  would  fashion  for  thy  praise. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  57 

I'll  praise  thee  by  remembering — 

Songs  will  I  make  thee  from  the  sighs 
Of  mine  own  heart,  and  as  I  sing 

The  gentle  river  winds  will  rise, 
As  when,  one  day,  their  touch  made  rare 

Aeolian  music  through  thy  hair. 

I'll  praise  thee  by  forgetfulness — 

I  will  forget  the  light  of  morn 
Was  ever  fair,  it  is  so  less 

Fair  than  thine  eyes ;  so,  borne 
Into  one  long  sweet  dream  of  thee 

Past  and  to  come  shall  all  dreams  be. 


GOOD-NIGHT  BUT  NOT  GOOD-BYE 

Grieve  not  to  say  good  night,  dear, 

Good  night  is  not  good-bye; 
And  'though  at  morning's  light,  dear, 

Long  miles  'twixt  us  shall  lie, 
Some  time  I  will  come  back  to  thee, 
As  happy  as  of  old  to  be. 

And  every  lonely  day,  dear, 

That  parts  our  lives  in  twain, 
At  last  will  pass  away,  dear, 

And  we  shall  meet  again. 
So  why  should  tears  dim  thy  fond  eye  ? 
'Tis  but  good-night  and  not  good-bye. 

We've  known  full  share  of  pain,  dear, 

Of  heartache  and  of  tears ; 
Fond  hopes  we  knew  were  slain,  dear, 

And  love  grew  sick  with  fears, 
But  soon  the  shadows  all  will  flee, 
And  we  no  more  will  parted  be. 

And  when  you're  all  my  own,  dear, 

Like  blessings  then  will  fall 
The  sorrows  we  have  known,  dear, 

The  loneliness  and  all. 
So  wherefore  tears  to  dim  thine  eye  ? 
Good  night,  dear  love,  but  not  good-bye. 


58  Just  California. 

ST.  JOHN,  THE  EVANGELIST 

Midst  all  the  palm-crowned  company 

He  seemeth  always  something  more  than  they — 

"Christ's  own  beloved  John."   Not  Peter, 

Even,  the  rock  on  whom  he  builded, 

Nor  Paul,  the  matchless  silver-voiced, 

Nor  Thomas,  with  his  hands  upon  his  wounds, 

Nor  any  of  them  all,  down  to  this  latest  day, 

Seem,  my  fair  saint,  so  fair  as  thou, 

"His  own  beloved  John." 

Calm-eyed  and  sweet, 
Almost  as  Christ  to  look  upon,  was  he; 
Almost  the  same  soft,  gentle  way ;  with  hair 
That  fell  in  waving  locks  his  shoulders  o'er, 
And  perfect  brows,  and  perfect  moulded  mouth ; 
Too  sad  to  smile,  and  yet  in  his  fair  face 
Something  more  sweet  and  tender  dwelt 
Than  that  which  lights  the  fondest  mother's  smile 
Above  her  sleeping  babe. 

Beside  Golgotha's  cross 
I  often  see  that  John  divinely  stand, 
The  last  to  hear  his  Master's  last  farewell 
Through  the  drear  agony  of  human  pain. 
I  see  the  women  clutching  at  his  feet 
Where  stayed  he  when  all  other  men  had  fled. 
And  then  I  love  to  watch  him  standing  so, 
To  catch  the  glory  of  his  dauntless  eye, 
And  know  that  he  who  was  the  best  beloved 
Was  faithful  in  the  last  and  mightiest  hour. 


ROBERT  EMMET 

Alas,  poor  dreamer,  and  poor  dream,  alas! 

Both  memories  blent  as  one,  together  they 
Down  the  sad  silence  of  the  ages  pass, 

Facing  forever  each  new-born  day. 

He  is  the  dream,  e'en  as  the  dream  is  he, 
Inseparable  from  each  other  wrought; 

His  name  unchiseled  'till  his  land  be  free — 
The  ghost  from  out  the  very  phantom  caught. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  59 

A  beauteous  dream!  (And,  ah,  he  was  so  fair,) 

Its  own  ideal  he,  and  it  was  his  ideal ; 
Both  gone;  so  'tis  dreams  fade  in  air, 

The  real  pitiless  of  the  unreal. 

And  as  the  dream  is  beautiful  and  sweet, 

In  that  same  measure  is  the  waking  pain. 
Alas,  O  Freedom!    when  shall  vision  greet 

So  fair  a  fancy  in  its  realms  again? 

Immortal  dream!    Dreamer  immortal,  too! 

Undying  both,  for  never  Gael  shall  spring 
To  tread  the  earth  but  all  his  fancies  through 

Sounds  from  that  dream  like  clashing  swords  shall  ring. 


THERE  WAS  A  LAD  WAS  BORN  IN  KYLE" 

(Robert  Burns,  bom  January  25,   1759.J 

"  There  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle," 

In  Kyle  among  the  hills  of  heather, 
And  'tis  tonight  we'll  sit  a  while 

The  songs  he  made  to  sing  together ; 
Full  many  a  stave  that  well  we  ken, 

The  lilts  beloved  beyond  all  others, 
The  which  that  lifted  lowly  men 

As  high  as  kings,  and  made  them  brothers. 

With  his  dear  ghost  we'll  linger  long, 

Beside  the  hearthstone's  glowing  embers, 
To  dream  of  Robin  and  his  song, 

The  songs  that  all  the  world  remembers ; 
We'll  wander  o'er  the  bonnie  braes, 

With  warlocks  and  the  dancing  fairy, 
And  linger  by  the  winding  ways 

Of  Doon,  to  think  of  Highland  Mary. 

Dust  are  the  heroes  of  the  sword, 

Forgotten  as  the  wars  of  Flanders, 
With  all  the  suns  and  rains  that  poured 

On  slaughtered  hosts  and  dead  commanders. 
What  names  they  won  who  now  will  care  ? 

Time's  mists  enfold  them  and  their  story, 
While  from  the  hallowed  fields  of  Ayr 

One  plowman  stands  in  deathless  glory. 


60  Just  California. 

Let  Time  forget  whoe'er  it  may, 

Its  warrior  sons,  their  deeds  of  wonder, 
But  he  who  woke  the  minstrel's  lay 

In  memory  lives  that  e'er  grows  fonder. 
O  songs  that  made  the  sad  heart  light, 

That  cheered  the  wavering  soul  and  lowly, 
That  set  the  wrongs  of  centuries  right, 

And  save  the  name  of  manhood  holy ! 


THE  OLD  REGIMENT 

Long  ago,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Over  the  hills  they  marched  away — 
Kinfolk,  friends,  and  the  boys  we  knew 
In  childhood's  blossoms  and  fields  of  dew, 
Changed  in  that  hour  to  full-grown  men, 
When  the  song  of  the  bugle  rang  down  the  glen 
With  its  wild  appeal  and  its  throb  and  thrall 
And  they  answered  "Yea"  to  their  country's  call. 

Then  in  the  furrow  the  plowshare  slept, 
O'er  wheel  and  anvil  a  silence  crept; 
All  night  long  through  the  village  street 
Thundered  the  rhythm  of  marching  feet, 
With  clash  of  steel  and  the  saber's  clang 
And  the  gray  commander's  stern  harangue, 
Till  morning  broke,  and  they  marched  away, 
Long  ago,  on  a  summer's  day. 

We  watched  them  go,  with  their  guns  agleam, 
Down  past  the  mill  and  the  winding  stream, 
Across  the  meadows  with  clover  deep, 
By  the  old  stone  wall  where  the  roses  creep. 
We  watched  them  go  till  they  climbed  the  hill, 
And  they  faced  about,  as  the  drums  grew  still, 
And  they  waved  their  caps  to  the  vale  below 
With  its  breaking  hearts  that  loved  them  so. 

Forth  they  leaped  to  the  surging  fray, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  brave  array; 
Their  strong  souls  steeled  to  their  lips'  light  song, 
And  their  ranks  of  blue  were  a  thousand  strong. 
Bright  were  their  banners,  and  bright  each  sword, 
When  the  peals  of  the  cannon  upon  them  roared. 
Their  brave  eyes  still  to  the  foeman  turned 
Where  the  sweep  of  the  battle  flamed  and  burned. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  61 

Onward  still  through  the  seething  hell 
Of  war's  dread  slaughter  they  fought  and  fell ; 
Forward  still  through  the  blinding  gloom 
Of  reeking  carnage  and  death  and  doom ; 
Binding  their  wounds  in  the  moan-filled  night, 
After  the  stress  of  the  day's  fierce  fight, 
When  tears  were  wept  for  the  silent  slain 
In  the  hurried  graves  of  the  red  field  lain. 

Save  for  the  maimed  and  the  shattered  few 

They  come  no  more  to  the  vale  they  knew 

In  the  old  dear  days  of  their  childhood's  dreams ; 

But  far  away,  by  the  alien  streams, 

On  the  scenes  of  their  struggles  their  still  hearts  sleep, 

Lying  unnamed  in  the  trenches  deep, 

Where  the  foe  at  Antietam  stormed  the  lines 

And  the  bloodstained  bayonets  at  Seven  Pines. 

They  wake  no  more  to  the  battle's  noise — 
Kinfolk,  friends,  and  the  neighbors'  boys; 
But  oft,  when  the  starlight  fills  the  glen, 
In  phantom  marches  they  come  again, 
And  over  the  walls  where  the  roses  creep, 
And  the  dew-kissed  meadows  with  clover  deep, 
I  see  them  still  as  they  marched  away 
Long  ago,  on  a  summer's  day. 


AS  YOU  JOURNEY  ON 

Waiting  for  the  Spring  through  the  winter's  clouds  of  gray, 
Fretting  through  the  night  for  the  coming  of  the  day, 
Praying  mid  the  battle  for  the  peace  that  is  to  be, 
Watching  on  the  shore  for  the  ships  to  come  from  sea, 
Looking  for  tomorrow  and  the  joy  that's  far  away, 
When  all  the  things  we  long  for  are  at  our  feet  today. 

For  the  heart  makes  its  own  summer,  whether  skies  be  blue  or  no. 
And  there's  glory  in  the  doing  that  will  set  the  soul  aglow ; 
There's  music  on  the  shore,  though  the  ship  may  never  fare 
To  the  harbor  where  you  wait  with  your  weeping  and  your  care; 
So  join  in  the  song  and  the  laughter  and  the  strife, 
And,  as  you  journey  on,  make  the  best  you  can  of  life. 


62  Just  California. 

THE  COSSACKS  OF  THE  DON 

The  bugle  rings,  his  steed  he  strides, 

The  battle  calls  him  on, 
And  forth  to  meet  its  shock  he  rides — 

The  Cossack  of  the  Don. 
The  fierce,  red  Tartar  blood  that  flows 

Down  from  unconquered  sires, 
Wakes,  with  the  joy  his  wild  heart  knows, 

When  blaze  war's  flaming  fires. 

God  help  the  foe  that  meets  them  when 

The  Cossacks  ride  to  war; 
The  strong,  swift,  bearded,  fighting-men 

Whose  friends  the  gray  wolves  are; 
Who  make  their  coverlets  the  snows 

When  they  lie  down  to  sleep, 
Who  faster  ride  than  wind  that  blows 

When  they  their  saddles  leap. 

No  man  has  seen  the  Cossacks'  sword 

Turn  downward  in  the  fight, 
In  vain  have  tides  of  battles  poured 

Against  them  in  their  might; 
The  hoof-beats  of  their  steeds  are  known, 

With  all  their  wandering  clan, 
From  bleak  Siberian  highways  down 

To  sun-kissed  Astrakhan. 

When  sits  the  White  Czar  on  his  throne 

Within  his  guarded  gate, 
Brooding,  with  brow  of  gloom,  alone, 

Upon  his  Empire's  fate, 
He  knows,  through  every  vague  alarm, 

While  ships  and  men  fight  on, 
He  still  may  trust  his  strong  right  arm — 

The  Cossacks  of  the  Don. 


Songs  Along  the  Way.  63 

THE  PORT  O'  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Down  around  the  quay  they  lie,  the  ships  that  sail  to  sea, 
On  shore  the  brown-cheeked  sailor-men,  they  pass  the  jest  with  me, 
But  soon  their  ships  will  sail  away  with  winds  that  never  tire, 
And  there's  one  that  will  be  sailing  to  the  Port  o'  Heart's  Desire. 

The  Port  o'  Heart's  Desire,  and  it's  oh,  that  port  for  me, 
And  that's  the  ship  that  I  love  best  of  all  that  sail  the  sea ; 
Its  hold  is  filled  with  memories,  its  prow  it  points  away 
To  the  Port  o'  Heart's  Desire,  where  I  roamed  a  boy  at  play. 

Ships  that  sail  for  gold  there  be,  and  ships  that  sail  for  fame, 

And  some  were  filled  with  jewels  bright  when  from  Cathay  they  came, 

But  give  me  still  yon  white  sail  in  the  sunset's  mystic  fire, 

That  the  running  tides  will  carry  to  the  Port  o'  Heart's  Desire. 

It's  you  may  have  the  gold  and  fame,  and  all  the  jewels,  too, 
And  all  the  ships,  if  they  were  mine,  I'd  gladly  give  to  you, 
I'd  give  them  all  right  gladly,  with  their  gold  and  fame  entire, 
If  you  would  set  me  down  within  the  Port  o'  Heart's  Desire. 

Oh,  speed  you,  white-winged  ship  of  mine,  oh,  speed  you  to  the  sea, 
Some  other  day,  some  other  tide,  come  back  again  for  me — 
Come  back  with  all  the  memories,  the  joys  and  e'en  the  pain, 
And  take  me  to  the  golden  hills  of  boyhood  once  again. 


THE     ^ 

UNIVERSITY 

'FORN^ 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED    FOR    FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS    BOOK   ON    THE   DATE    DUE.    THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY    AND    TO     $1.00     ON     THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

UL  22  1936 

NOV   V  1940 

Wwil             f\  St%^km. 

"■-9J93D    f 

n0.  .&#  *° ' 

titiM 

$\5 

• 

[  fi  >  ■>(--•  i  Q  H 

- 

LD  21-100m-7,,33 

vr 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

I 


I 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— +      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
r     HOME  USE 

2                        ; 

3 

4 

5                                ( 

b 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

JUN  0  2  1989 

MAY  1 1>  1989 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6                                BERKELEY,  CA  94720                  /  „ 

